


Plucked

by sausaged



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-07-22 05:01:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7420939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sausaged/pseuds/sausaged
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>after a run in with Potter on some fateful night, Draco's overwhelmed by the urge to do indecent things... to an egg?</p><p> </p><p>written for Draco Tops Harry Fest 2014.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plucked

**Author's Note:**

> retro-post! because i would like to archive my DTH journey on ao3! originally posted [here](http://dracotops-harry.livejournal.com/274376.html) for fyernaice@lj and beta'd by resmiranda@ao3.
> 
>  
> 
> bastardized summary of the prompt: harry lays an egg.

To be honest, Draco didn't think it was too big of a problem until he wakes up at around three in the morning (again) with his dick in his hand, stroking furiously to the lingering threads of what was a pretty nice dream... if it didn't involve Potter and _an egg_.

Body tingling with a small burst of afterglow, Draco banishes the mess away, gritting his teeth as he tries to remember how all this began. These dreams started about three months or so ago, after some sort of weird magic entered his body and how, later that day, Potter being as blind as a bat like usual, had body checked him in the corridor…

 

"There's absolutely nothing wrong with you, Mr. Malfoy," the old bat says with an air of annoyance, half pushing Draco out of the Infirmary. "Other than lack of sleep, you're as healthy as a hippogriff." Draco winces before glaring at the mediwitch, watching her roll her eyes. "And possibly a case of melodrama that can be solved with a lemon drop if you don't hurry to class." She nods curtly once before shutting the door tightly behind her.

"Melodrama can't be solved with a lemon drop," Draco grumbles, turning on his heel with a flare of his robes and heading to no particular destination because he's obviously deathly ill and how can he ever attend class while in this state of mind?

Ever since last night, he's been feeling a little feverish and off his rocker. Perhaps it had something to do with that weird trippy trance he fell into (maybe the lingering whatever that caused that classroom to go out of use), where he felt a creep of cold and unfamiliar magic seizing his heart and it knocked him unconscious for a few hours before the world swam back into focus. ... And then he might have stayed up for the rest of the night for a rendezvous with his report, but that doesn't explain the taint of magic that he feels in his veins, a small corruption that is creeping through his blood and—

"Watch where you're going, Malfoy."

_—white, hot, searing pain running up his arm where Potter had brushed against him—_

"... Malfoy?"

Draco gasps, the pain is gone as fast as it came, although he is sort of confused why Potter is towering above him now.

"What the fuck, Potter," Draco manages breathlessly, barely able to compose himself. "You look disgusting, like someone just ran you over with 500 fucking Firebolts."

"... thanks."

 

That night is the first night he sees Potter in his dreams, hunched over a small nest of rich-coloured cloths, cradling a small egg in his hands, fingers ever so gently stroking the shell with a soft murmur.

Draco wakes to the trickle of fake sunlight leaking into his dungeon of a bedroom, suppressing the urge to laugh to himself and the ridiculous notion of Potter and his egg.

A: Because humans can't lay eggs, especially if they are male, even with the help of magic. ... Right?

B: There's no way Potter's anus is big enough to lay eggs even though the amount of bullshit he craps out says otherwise.

B seems more reasonable to Draco anyway.

 

-x-

 

_How long will this last?_

Potter and eggs contaminate his dreams at night. Whether if he sleeps early, sleeps late, or even tries to Dreamlessly Sleep.

Draco yawns again, stretching languidly on his workbench as Professor Snape swirls around his table, nodding with a rather satisfied hum at his impeccable potion.

He smirks, mouth opening to say something when somewhere, in the back of the room— hark! Is that the sound of a cauldron kissing the floor? In a beat, a perfectly reproduced scent of rotten eggs hits him in the gut, reducing him to a choking and eye-watering pile of a mess.

"What were you doing, Hermione!"

Draco gasps, grappling Professor Snape's robes and pressing the fabric to his face desperately as he tries to calm his shriveling lungs.

That voice... That was Potter, wasn't it?

"Harry, that was absolutely your fault!" The Weasel defends ever-so-bravely, and it might have been a real sight to see the Golden Boy's sidekick standing up for himself, if the Weasel didn't look like he'd just swallowed a thousand needles. "You put in the newt tongue before the dragonfly wings!"

"Oh, so it's my fault now?"

"Potter, it clearly says that the dragonfly wings go before the newt tongue," Draco drawls nasally, fingers pinching his perfect nose ever so elegantly when Professor Snape snatches his damp and snotty robes away with a snarl.

Green eyes narrow at him and all Draco can do is manage a beautiful shrug of his shoulder. "I didn't realize I was fucking talking to you, _Malfoy_."

"Mr. Potter, that's _enough_! 50 points from Gryffindor and three nights of detention for not paying attention, disrespecting a fellow classmate, and for inappropriate language!" Professor Snape is towering over the Gryffindors now, somehow the only person who is immune to this awful smell. The next few words are so soft that even Draco has to lean in, "your father must be rejoicing and dancing in his grave, excited to see that you're using such filthy expressions _just like him_." Draco's never realized how yellow Professor Snape's teeth are until he bares them at a visibly shaking Potter, fists clenched by his side and obviously fighting the heartbeat instinct of socking Professor Snape with a right hook.

Actually, Draco doesn't even know how much he wanted to see this happen until now.

But unfortunately, with Potty's emotionally constipated feelings, all he does is pack his stinky books and storm off.

Surprisingly, though...

The Beaver and the Weasel don't follow.

 

-x-

 

It is warm and soft to the touch, even though the shell is hard.

It's a weird sort of feeling to describe, because Draco hasn't ever experienced anything like this.

Potter is smiling at him, legs crossed with his nest of rich-coloured cloths piled into his lap. Then Potter is laughing, soundless but never-the-less joyful and warm and—

Draco sits up with a gasp and the persistent chirping of his alarm fades into existence, but all that Draco is feeling right now is as if he'd just broken the surface of the water after a deep, deep dive, breath still stuttering and his hands trembling on his chest, where he had cradled Potter's speckled egg so preciously mere seconds ago.

" _Ugh..._ " Draco grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes with an exasperated hiss before trudging off to the bathroom to get ready for the day.

 

"Malfoy, we need to talk."

This seriously isn't what Draco expects in the midst of the breakfast rush in the Great Hall. The Weasel and the Beaver both standing in his way (seriously, is this a parody of Mean Witches or something?) with their arms crossed and identical frowns decorating their less than fortunate-looking faces.

"I haven't even had time to take a dump today and you want to talk?" Draco rolls his eyes, preferring to pick at the invisible lint on his robes rather than make eye contact with these idiots.

"It's about Harry."

He almost snorts because all Draco really wants to say at this point is how Potter should stay out of his fucking dreams and leave him the fuck alone before he makes scrambled eggs out of that speckled thing. However, he cannot bring himself to say any of this, so he just nods with a sigh of resignation.

Draco can be courageous, but today is not the day.

Not after a crazy dream like this morning.

And _especially not_ when Granger is cracking her knuckles threateningly behind Weasley, looking at him with a smile that doesn't reach her dirty brown eyes.

“Later. Meet you in the library,” Draco mumbles before brushing past the duo with an agitated hiss.

 

"— and it's getting ridiculous."

"Can you please enlighten me as to why you're telling me this?" There are only so many times he can check his perfect nails for dirt and dust while listening to the Weasel's sob story about his lack of sleep just because their constipated Potty is refusing the flush.

"He's calling, Malfoy!" Weasley lets out a whistling breath through his clenched teeth. "Like a song bird at night. Tittering away and then the _cooing_."

"I still fail to see the problem here." Draco stands from the plush library chair, dusting himself meticulously. "Well, unlike you two, I am rather busy—"

"He's calling for _you_ , Malfoy," Granger begins, her fingers about to knot themselves into a mess just like her hair. "Cooing and tittering your name at night and conveniently forgets everything in the morning." Her eyes are sharp and calculating as they rest on him. "You didn't do... anything _funny_ to him, did you?"

Merlin, are these two for real?

"Look, Granger. This is a question I'd like to ask him myself, too. Very fortunately, I am too busy hating him and thinking he's not worth my time. Why would I even bother doing something so stupid when obviously I'd somehow get caught and potentially turn into a bloody ferret again? I really don't enjoy slithering around in people's trousers. If I'd done it, I would've properly framed another person and covered my tracks well enough to avoid this—" Draco waves a hand. "— confrontation."

 

Everyone needs to leave him the fuck alone, Draco fumes quietly later that day, daintily unwrapping the parcel he'd receive from his parents this morning in the privacy of his four poster bed. If this is going to cause his grades to drop like a rock (and by a rock, he really means being beat by Granger again), then he might as well entertain the thought of being a hair model for the Wicked Essence shampoo line, just like his father.

Ironically, there is a bottle of Wicked Essence sitting inside the parcel and a few other snacks as well as some sort of awkward letter that his father must've drafted while his mother stood over his shoulder like a hawk.

_Dear Draco._

_I hope you have been taking care of your hair..._

Draco sighs, laying down on his bed with a flop.

Before he realizes, he is drifting to sleep— into a world of warmth and comfort and Potter and Potter's stupid speckled egg.

 

-x-

 

So here he is, three months later after this all started, his little dragon tucked and satisfied and warm for now because this is actually the fifth time Draco has woken up with his dick in his hand, grip almost too tight to be masturbating to the dreams of Potter and his fine speckled egg.

 _This has got to stop_. Draco grunts, awkwardly rolling onto his side, his heart feeling sort of heavy. He is so done with this— these dreams are going absolutely out of control because nothing is more worrisome than this uncontrollable urge, which he consistently tries to fight in his dreams, to blow his load all over Potter's egg.

Tomorrow, he will talk to Potter about this.

Tomorrow, because Draco is really fucking tired so he will go back to sleep.

 

In the end, the opportunity really presents itself because Potter is wandering around the corridors, like the lost loser he is, when Draco crosses paths with him next. He's got a small Dragonhide pouch strapped around his waist that is older than his great great grandmother and looks as if vomit was a legitimate colour at one point in time.

And before Draco can call out, their eyes lock and it's a sort of tense moment for a bit before Potter is stalking towards him and Draco is fighting the urge to run away and _why was confronting him a good idea anyway?_

"We need to talk, Malfoy."

"Well, I don't thi—"

"Malfoy." Potter's voice is tired but sharp and commanding despite being a few inches shorter than Draco. However, Draco thinks the real reason why he couldn't quite refuse Pothead's dumb way of asking someone to do a favour (does he talk to the Beaver and the Weasel the same way?) is because of the way Potter's sharp green eyes seem to flash and thunder and when he snaps out of his trance, they are standing before some sort of weird corridor— the Room of Requirement.

 

"There's something wrong with you," Draco begins after crossing his arms and deciding that the plushy leather chair is safe from all deathly contraptions that may have been conjured. "Why are you talking to me?"

The fire in Potter's eyes a moment ago dims considerably and he is rubbing at the tip of his tie, fingers barely brushing that disgusting hip-bag. "Y-yeah... actually... I don't really know."

Throwing a dramatic sigh, Draco leans back against the leather chair and looks up at the ceiling. "I have class in about 15 minutes if you don't hurry up. You're wasting more than enough of my time."

The comment hangs in the air while Potter looks to be deep in thought, his long fingers curling and uncurling themselves and finally they go into hiding in the pockets of Potter's grey slacks. "Fucking hell, Malfoy, you're making this really hard." This is followed by an explosive sigh, filled with frustration— a sigh that Draco recognizes when Father is upset by how the photographer at Wicked Essence can't seem to capture his beautiful blond hair, and the same sigh that is hanging on Draco's lips right now. "Can't even cut me some slack," Potter continues in a hurried mumble, almost as if he's too embarrassed to be saying this. "I see you when I'm not seeing you and I'm feeling all sorts of weird things— what are you doing to me, seriously?"

"What about you, Potter?" It's a slower drawl than usual because Draco intends on keeping his cool as long as he can. "Snapping at your friends enough for them to corner me into a chat and they say you're calling my name in your sleep?" A snort. _What is wrong with you?_

"I see you, okay? In my dreams— nearly every fucking night, Potter." Potter looks like a gaping fish out of water and Draco takes the momentum because once he's started, it doesn't seem like he's capable of holding back the past few months of confusing reoccurring dreams when the object of those dreams is standing right before him. "Can't you leave me the fuck alone? I'm so tired of waking up and waving my dick around like a fucking idiot!" Draco snaps his mouth shut, eyes wide in horror at his unintentional revelation.

And it is then, Draco realizes that he's fucked up; like a bird that's been completely plucked and bare and cold and ready to be seared at approximately 350F, that's exactly how he feels under Potter's unrelenting and bright green stare, scrutinizing him and weighing his words in that small brain of his.

Draco digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, a loud groan of exasperation escaping his tired, tired soul.

"Malfoy, I have something to tell you," Potter is fidgeting and his voice is sort of soft at first, but it grows stronger with each word as his resolve begins to steel for some odd reason. Draco cannot fathom what he might be in for to cause Potter’s features to scrunch up like he’s taking a huge dump because all Draco can think of right now, is how not to make his pants tent uncomfortably as his mind begins to twist Potter's serious expression into a pinched face of ecstasy that plagues his dreams at night.

Although when Potter produces an egg, the size of his palm and perfectly shaped and speckled like nobody’s business, everything he's dreamt of and all those nights he's spent jerking himself to completion all melts into this one moment.

_An egg._

"It just happened one day," Potter is mumbling again, stroking the egg with a gentle touch and a hint of a smile gracing his lips, just like in Draco's dreams. "I woke up and it was there, in my bed. I think it was after I had gotten into a fight with Ron and Hermione, you see. Up until the egg, I was cranky and moody all the time for no apparent reason." Draco rolls his eyes because Potter is obviously ignorant to all his previous bouts of anger. "But somehow... I don't know... Just... you... me... I..."

Suddenly, even though he knows he is interrupting little Potty's story of recollection, Draco is reaching out, entranced by the egg when Potter jerks it out of his reach in a strangled gasp, curling around the egg protectively. His previously (relatively) calm green eyes shine with a wild light and with a 180 degree change in character, the twitchy Potter laughs and dismisses himself quickly, running out of the room before Draco can register what just happened.

 

-x-

 

And when the dreams slowly begin to cease, Draco is confused as to how he should feel about this.

On one hand, he feels sort of betrayed because he's already resigned himself to forever seeing Potter cradling an egg in his sleep, and on the other hand, he feels immense relief that he will no longer be seeing Potter cradling an egg in his sleep. Although neither reason explains the unshakable sense of emptiness that's settled in his core as Draco wakes up to another dreamless night.

It's probably better this way, since the dreams have been dwindling like a dying candle and a burst of fumes from Goyle's botched potions. After all, he's tired of thinking he's in need of a mediwitch for becoming sexually excited over some eggs.

 

But Draco is backpedaling on that note when he realizes that Potter has been avoiding him the past week or so. It's sort of annoying when it's the 7th time he's made a witty comment and Potter doesn't find the need to get even slightly riled up. Like a one-sided game of tag, Draco is getting more than just a little bored with this calm and conserved and less emotionally constipated Potty.

So it is completely out of his expectations when Weasley and Granger come up to him, both looking like they're constipated and so full of shit to the brim that they'd burst from all the shit they are holding in.

Shit.

"What do you want?"

Granger elbows Weasley sharply in the ribs, nodding her head meaningfully towards Draco.

"Uhm..." Draco rolls his eyes— it is too easy to do that when you're around a bunch of idiots who have trouble trying to translate their feelings into words. "Harry is on the fourth floor, inside the empty classroom beside Binn's class."

Draco blinks. "And this concerns me because...?"

"Come off it, Malfoy," the redhead is grumbling (a trait that is most apparent in 90% of the Gryffindors he's spoken to in the past few months). "You've been chasing him with your eyes so often the past week that more than half the school thinks you're banging."

Draco jerks up from his seat so fast that his knee hits the table with a resounding thunk, fingers gripping onto his wand so tightly that his knuckles are white. The heavy _Tales of Mouldywart_ slams onto the ground in the flickering candle light.

 

In a castle filled with magic and wonder, Draco is sometimes still surprised with the speed of gossip that spreads throughout the castle.

That is the last thing that is going on in his head when he stops before the creaky old door of the deserted classroom, a sense of déjà vu surrounding his body like how Hogwarts is wrapped in a blanket of magic.

He remembers now, that this was the classroom where he had lost consciousness before this whole ordeal started. How he had been there that night, doing whatever school work he was doing, since Slytherin dormitories had been much too loud and busy for him to properly spread out his work.

"Malfoy? What are you doing here?"

Draco doesn't remember when and how he had stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, but for a second, maybe it was a trick of the light, he thinks he saw a pair of off-coloured white wings on Potter's back. "Potter."

Cue a beat of awkward silence, and for once in his life, Draco can understand the urge to scuff his polished shoes onto the dusty stone ground.

"Here." Potter is holding out something in his hand and Draco, not too sure why, begins to weave his way through the mess of old tables and chairs to join Potter by the glowing window. The trickle of light filtering into the room and bouncing off each speckle of dust could almost, if the idea of a dust-covered room doesn't disgust Draco as much as it does, be beautiful.

In Potter's hand, is the egg.

The same speckled one he first laid eyes on last week.

"You probably can't even swallow the egg whole, even if you are a snake." It was a half-assed attempt at being funny and witty, but Potter's strained attempt to lighten the awkwardness of this situation is as close to an apology as Draco will ever get for Potter's poor behaviour as a rival for the past week.

"You'd run out of here screaming if I could unhinge my jaws, dumbass." Draco stares at the offered egg. "... You sure? Last time you took off like some tittering magpie in the face of a racing broom."

Potter nods tightly, leaning back against the window pane. "Yeah. I've thought about it a lot." Draco's snort earns him a hard glare. "My dreams of you haven't stopped." Draco's fingers freeze, mere centimeters before the soft-looking shell of the egg. "It's just that when you suddenly tried to touch it, I just... I got sort of scared and felt a little unprepared for it." Draco nods and understands, because his thoughts were not exactly pure when he was approaching Potter's egg, remembering all those dreams of spraying his gunk all over the egg like a Muggle fire engine spraying a building consumed in flames.

Even though those thoughts have been following him around like Peeves, the warmth that spreads from the egg in his hands to his whole being is indescribable and overwhelming. He cradles the egg to his chest, eyes fluttering shut with a growl. "What sorcery is this, Potter?"

The other boy has the nerve to laugh at this, a hearty sound that sings like bells chiming on a sunny day, echoing in Draco's ears like his dreams. "Before I laid the egg, I was grouchy and everything, right?" The laughter simmers. "I started dreaming about you and you doing _things_ to my egg—"

"T- _things_? That can't be right, I started dreaming about you and your egg before you laid it."

"It _might_ have something to do with the night I was climbing a tree in the Forbidden Forest and fell asleep in a nest of Wishlings."

Draco splutters, nearly dropping the egg in the process, producing a sharp cry of horror from Potter. "Wishlings?!"

"I was feeling sort of gross after, so I was heading down toward the Infirmary when you bumped into me in the corridor—"

"No, Potter. You're the one who bumped into me—" His face and his hand has never been in such perfect harmony as Draco pulls his wrist down to his chin. "Ha... I see..."

"...What now?"

What now indeed.

Wishlings are pranksters who take the simple wishes of humans and warp them into something fun an entertaining before bestowing those wishes onto those who had wished for them. What could have Potter ever wished for that resulted in an egg?

And why him?

Draco shakes his head, rolling his shoulders with a graceless grunt.

It's useless thinking about that now— it's how they should move on from this point. Gathering all the information he's been fed in his dreams, there's a 100% chance something will happen when his semen touches that egg.

Even if he knows that, Draco remains entranced, gentle fingers stroking the shell of the warm speckled egg.

The silence between them stretches for a little longer, just enough time for Draco to bring up a hand to rub consciously as the back of his head.

Then he clears his throat after maybe several centuries later (it's really only been about five minutes), his hands moving forward to deposit the egg into Potter's waiting hands. "I... uh. I don't know how to catch worms or anything, but I suppose I can learn. It shouldn't be so bad when the Weasel can handle it."

"He was puking up slugs, Malfoy."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever."

"Maybe, you know... we can hatch it together or something. But we gotta get to know each other first and stuff like that. Maybe like... date or something?"

Draco snorts, finally seating himself beside Potter and leaning against the window frame. "What kind of sick fantasies are you having, Potter? We're not even friends." Draco licks his lips, the odd warmth from the egg ingrained into his fingertips and his chest, a tingling feeling of wonder and possibly excitement. "But... I guess we can start with that."

 

He goes to bed that night and he dreams of the egg and how it shakes and trembles and a small crack appears on the shell, a muffled coo coming from inside. Potter is beside him, fingers fisted in his wrinkled robes and leaning forward to peer into the nest of coloured cloths.

Draco figures that he should find it more than just a little creepy, who'd ever think about hatching eggs with Potty, seriously? 

He wakes up feeling a little plucked, but feathers will start growing again (he hopes).

A picnic date with Potter and his egg today— Pansy better not find out.


End file.
